


if we're not supposed to dance

by neonbreadsticks



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, M/M, Self-Discovery, What Is Happiness?, had an existential crisis writing this, i am so lost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24290452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonbreadsticks/pseuds/neonbreadsticks
Summary: His fingers dig into the wood of the railing he leans on. A sigh bubbles in his chest. He closes his eyes.And decides that he isn’t not happy. Because he definitely is.He then finds himself questioning the ownership of the happiness. He wonders who he’s auctioned it off of this time. And the previous time. And every single time before that.Daniel doesn’t know where he’s stolen the happiness from. Doesn’t know how to make his own.He decides that it’s probably time to learn.essentially: Daniel Ricciardo tries to figure out what happiness is, with just a tiny sprinkle of Max.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo/Max Verstappen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	if we're not supposed to dance

Daniel Ricciardo doesn’t know how to be happy. 

Heck, he doesn’t even know what clothes to wear in the morning. Doesn’t know which unnecessarily oversized T-shirt should act as his second skin for the day. His own protective membrane against the world. 

Today, he settles for a black one. 

It’s a predicament. When the smile on his face starts to feel more like a layer of dirt, scrubbed off in seconds. Thrown on to hide the nothingness below. 

The sun is barely up, daring to illuminate barren fields of sand. Silhouettes of cattle and sheep litter the horizon. 

Daniel wonders if they’re happy. 

His fingers dig into the wood of the railing he leans on. A sigh bubbles in his chest. He closes his eyes. 

And decides that he isn’t _not_ happy. Because he definitely is.

He then finds himself questioning the ownership of the happiness. He wonders who he’s auctioned it off of this time. And the previous time. And every single time before that. 

Daniel doesn’t know where he’s stolen the happiness from. Doesn’t know how to make his own. 

He decides that it’s probably time to learn. 

\--------------------

There was a time when Daniel thought happiness was physical. 

That it came in the form of candy bars and television programmes and his favourite bedsheets with the little racecars on them. 

Because candy was sweet, and sweet things tasted like heaven. 

Because his father would fall asleep on the sofa every night at nine, granting Daniel full control of the television and what seemed like an endless array of programmes to watch and giggle over. 

Because his favourite bedsheets were only around for a week, before they would disappear and reappear a week later, smelling like soap suds and air, the racecars looking redder than he remembered. Each time. 

And then these things slowly vanished. And Daniel still doesn’t know who to hold accountable.

The candy bars melted into salads, gardens of leaves and tomatoes and too-salty cheese shoved into a bowl and down his throat.

The television programmes crammed themselves into the back of his mind, schoolwork and studies and _life_ occupying more space in there than they should.

The bedsheets with the little racecars were too small for his new bed, so they were chucked into a bag and given away, replaced by solid grey sheets that smelled like nothing but cardboard. 

So Daniel stops thinking that happiness is physical, because happiness shouldn’t be taken away so easily, and because he’d rather not acknowledge the fact that he’s the one that took it away. 

\--------------------

The sun is almost fully up, and the cattle and sheep have disappeared. 

Sunlight stops about two inches from his feet, cruelly blocked out by his shadow. 

His fingers feel the dead wood of the railing aching and pushing back against his nails. 

A fly buzzes across his knuckles - the only sign of life. 

He slaps it with his other hand. 

Its body splatters messily over his skin. 

\--------------------

Daniel corrects himself and thinks that maybe happiness lies in memories. 

He remembers the lawn. Grass so long that a dozen rattlesnakes could hide inside it. Daniel was never afraid of the rattlesnakes. And so he lay on the lawn, not caring if they all decided to slither into his hair and mistake it for a new home. 

Michelle was less fond of the snakes. She opted for the patio instead. 

And there they would lay - one in wet grass and one on dry wood, looking up at the millions of stars that the Australian night sky had to offer. 

They stared up at the winking lights and talked about anything else, from new friends to old fantasies and never acknowledged what they were both looking at. 

Daniel wishes they had. At least once. 

Because soon the grass seemed too wet, and the rattlesnakes were gone, and the patio gave nothing but pains in Michelle’s back.

And then the stars were plucked, one by one out of the night sky. 

Daniel wishes he knew where they all went. 

Michelle never brings up those memories. It’s counting the seconds until they’re forgotten, just like the second ‘i’ in their last name. 

He’d tried stargazing in Monaco. There was only one star. Bright white and sparkling against the sheen of bluish-black. He’d watched it carefully. Intently. Tried to absorb all the light that it gave out. 

Until it flickered and blinked and turned bright red. 

And he’d gotten up and gone back into the apartment, because satellite-gazing just didn’t have the same ring that stargazing did. 

He’s yet to try it, again, here in Australia. 

Daniel wonders if memories can really be considered happiness if no one talks about them. 

\--------------------

As the sun finally stretches over the horizon, Daniel makes plans for the time after it leaves. 

He calls Michelle.

They’re going stargazing tonight.

\--------------------

Daniel decides to tug on the thread of memories. Waits and sees if anything substantial is on the other end. 

He tugs harder, and lets curly hair and Australian winds and go karts and podiums fly his way. 

Maybe racing is happiness. 

Because to him, racing is playing hopscotch on a tightrope while playing a game of chess with the Grim Reaper, and Daniel loves every second of it. 

Because the prize for every chess game won is another week of his life. 

And maybe a trophy or so. 

Daniel doesn’t know when he started to associate champagne with happiness. Or when he started to feel that racing was only happiness if there was champagne involved, and not if he was still breathing.

The breathing was the least of his worries.

Daniel doesn’t think that he’s fallen out of love with racing. He just knows that he loves winning more. 

The winning only stops being a source of happiness once it stops happening. 

And then Daniel wonders if maybe winning ruined his love for racing. 

Because he doesn’t get into the car anymore without the sole purpose of feeling the weight of that stupidly gigantic bottle of champagne in his hand. Doesn’t climb onto the tightrope because he can’t see everyone cheering for him on the other side. 

Daniel hopes that racing is still happiness.

He hopes that he can still feel the happiness without tasting the champagne. 

Maybe the magnitude of love for something isn’t equivalent to the happiness that it brings. 

Maybe one day he’ll race, purely because he loves racing. 

Until then, Daniel doesn’t know if happiness can come in the form of podiums and cars and champagne. 

\--------------------

Daniel feels like he’s getting somewhere with this. Maybe happiness _is_ love. He’s just not focussing on the right type. 

Max was young. He was arrogant. He was aggressive. And he was brash. 

Daniel loved every bit of it. 

Their love was slow, sweet, and subtle. It was tied up in soft hotel bedsheets and left on his doorstep, waiting for someone to take it in and coddle it.

So Daniel found himself with Max’s head on his chest, Max’s fingers tracing his tattoos, and Max’s voice ringing in his head. 

Max was particularly enamoured by one the tattoos - a cherub with a stringless bow. He would force Daniel into conversations about it, almost confident that there was some sort of deeper backstory behind the absence of the string.

“It’s not complete.”

And it’s almost as if he didn’t need to answer because the list of conspiracies Max had for the missing string grew by the second. 

Sometimes, Daniel would let Max get carried away with the possibilities.

“Cupid’s shot the arrow, and after that, his string broke and he has no need to get another because they’re already in love.”

Daniel liked this one the most, because it was usually followed up with gentle kisses and soft touches and whispered _I love you_ s.

Now, maybe Max didn’t realise what was wrong, or maybe he didn’t care. 

Maybe Daniel was just a dick. 

But there wasn’t any way it could work. When each of Max’s podiums felt like a slap in the face, when each line of spoken comfort felt more like a chokehold than a hug. He would let Max spend his victory weekends wiping up all of his spilt misery and absolutely relish the times when Max stopped talking about the podiums.

It got to the point where Daniel hated seeing Max after a good race weekend. He hated seeing Max smile and drown in goddamn _champagne_ from his measly twelfth place on the grid. Because Max’s happiness was just a reminder of his own unhappiness. And so Daniel’s car would run on nothing but bitterness. Maybe that’s why it broke down in Germany.

It was after the race when Max had his fingers running up and down Cupid’s spine once again. He’d been yapping away about _what a fun race_ and _thank god for RedBull strategy_ and _how good it felt to beat Vettel._ Daniel had nodded. 

And then pushed Max’s head off his chest and screamed at Max to _get the fuck out._

Max was on his feet, and Daniel watched as those familiar hands trembled and watched as the mouth that he had kissed so many times before breathed out _what the hell, Daniel._ He’s done nothing but wrapped his fingers around the too-fat neck of the champagne bottle, and shoved it into Max’s chest. 

He’d held the door open for Max as he left, and slammed it shut when he was gone. 

Daniel wishes he’d known that Max’s happiness wasn’t exchangeable for his. 

So he waits everyday for happiness to show up on his doorstep again, tied up in soft hotel bedsheets.

The package never came. 

Maybe Cupid’s string was really broken, rendering him unable to shoot again. 

Daniel concludes that happiness isn’t love, simply because he hasn’t found it yet.

\--------------------

The sun is in his eyes. 

Daniel lets go of the railing and moves further backwards on the porch. 

He stops squinting. 

(Max used to say that it would cause wrinkles.)

There’s a mechanic whirring down the road. 

He later learns that the small _puttputt_ noise comes from the postman. Delivering letters in the middle of nowhere. He supposes that some people still do have letters.

Today, the postman carries on by. 

\--------------------

Daniel finally settles on family. Because family is the closest thing to happiness. 

Because he can never seem to wash the smell of his mother’s famous roast chicken out of his hair, and he still hums the tune to his father’s favourite song when he’s feeling particularly cheerful. 

Because he looks forward to annoying Michelle again at every single family gathering, and slicing his feet open with the Legos that his nephew leaves lying around. 

Because he doesn’t have to be anyone else, but Daniel Ricciardo.

_Yes._

Daniel wants to think that he’s found happiness. 

And yet there’s something that still irks him. Something not quite right. 

Daniel wishes he knew how to find happiness on his own. 

\--------------------

The sun is still glaringly bright. The cattle and sheep have returned from wherever they disappeared to. Flies buzz around, trying to find solace in the overly stagnant air. 

Daniel walks to the edge of the porch and stares right into the sun. 

He squints and thinks of candy bars and bedsheets and racecars and stars and Legos. 

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> It was while writing this, that I had a full-blown mental breakdown. Because what really is happiness? I played with so many possibilities and I still have zero clue as to what makes me happy. Also the whole idea of loving something that doesn't make you happy is completely wild to me and the source of my existential crises. I ended up projecting a lot of my own problems onto this poor man.
> 
> It was also while writing this, that I realised that rattlesnakes don't actually reside in Australia. Oh well.


End file.
